


Of Predators and Prey

by leothegayfool16



Series: Once Upon a Time in the West [1]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: (mentioned but its not prevalent), Alternate Universe - Western, Boss-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Extended Metaphors, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Racism, there's no graphic descriptions tho i think, well a little more than implied basically it's child labor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leothegayfool16/pseuds/leothegayfool16
Summary: Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, coyotes cull the flock of sheep and the railroad reddens with blood and rust.                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(In which the leader of the Saints didn't learn their trade from Sunday School and sure as hell didn't meet Johnny there either)





	Of Predators and Prey

**Author's Note:**

> this whole series is basically a really self-indulgent prompt fill for "bodyguard falls in love with their charge" for fem!boss/fem!oc (this work in particular serving as one of the character's backstories) so they're going to be the main characters of the series with a lot of the other saints and a couple people's bosses thrown in the mix as well with more minor roles

  

The scorching sun bore down relentlessly onto the exhausted children toiling away at unyielding steel with bloodied hands and faces caked with dust and soot, vultures circling hungrily overhead.  Men in fine tailored clothes circled them too, whips held loosely in their ever so clean hands like the bared fangs of wailing coyotes on the prowl waiting for the weakest in the herd to falter before rending the frail little thing to pieces in a ravenous mob, nothing left but white bone and the scent of fear hanging in the air.  Despite the desolate conditions designed to bleed the fight out of their unwilling flock, not all were sheep, for there was a wolf hiding among them.  Playing meek and obedient under a lamb’s fleece, one of the laborers by the name of Akira hammered docilely away at one of the railroad spikes and fury rippled across her skin as if the winds sweeping upon the plains themselves were spurring her to resist, to put her teeth to the coyote’s throats and spill their blood upon the soil.  She herself had painted the sand scarlet many a time from the wounds inflicted by the hands of the rich barons overseeing them and oh how the little wolf longed to return the favor, yet she held back.  Her fingers ached from the previous day’s blisters split open by the coarse wooden handle of the pick and red sluggishly oozed down her face at the nosebleed incurred by the crushing heat muddling their minds and polluting her resolve.  She wiped away the blood with her sleeve; no, now was not the time to strike.

  And so Akira waited like a coiled adder lurking beneath a rock as the sun dipped low into lavender sky and the desert nightlife began to sing, the coyotes deaf to the staccato stutter of her rattle.  The workers retreated to their meager excuse for a camp, no more than a smattering of bedrolls pinned in by the barracks, with their overseers trailing not far behind in time for their daily rations of stale bread and lukewarm mystery stew, yet she lingered by the developing tracks and cradled her pick to her chest.  Washing away her exhaustion, adrenaline coursed through her veins like venom and something feral and angry clawed its way to the surface.  In spite of the promise of violence boiling her blood in electrifying surges of energy, her timing could not be solely attributed to the wild thing raging under her ribs, for the coyotes’ forces were divided on account of a wily fox slipping the noose and kicking up dust in their snouts in her mad dash to freedom and an opportunity presented itself to the wolf.  Even as Akira’s absence was noted and a man with a whip in his hand and a gun on his belt dismounted his horse to approach her, the fruits of her patience were evident as no others made to join him.  The wolf smiled.

  “Hurry along now, girlie,” he too grinned maliciously down at her, voice drawled in some semblance of eloquence undermined by the threat lying beneath, “wouldn’t want things to get ugly.”  He took another step forward (4 feet), rustling the whip against the dry grass and continuing to approach at her lack of response (2 feet).     

  “Whatsa’ matter heathen, don’t speak English?” No answer, her grip tightened.

  “Hey!  Listen when I speak to you, I said MOVE!”  The man roared, rearing back his arm to lash her spirit to shreds.  Too bad for him Akira’s bite was worse than his bark.

  Rounding on him with the speed of a beast pushed and prodded much too far, she swung the pickaxe down in a savage strike to slam into his knee and sent him sprawling forward onto the gory remnants of his knee, blood slicking the earth and the revolting crunch of bone silencing the crickets.  The coyote keened in agony as his horse reared in alarm and the commotion of reinforcements stirred in the distance, yet they were much too far and much too late to make it in time.  Feral and euphoric at her enemy’s anguished writhing, the wolf snarled and yanked her fang free of his flesh before drawing back to bury the metal edge of the pick into the bobbing flesh of his throat, for his hand crept slowly towards the holster at his hips and she would not be caged again.  His eyes rolled back into their sockets and a wheezing gurgle strangled the pained scream to exit through clenched teeth as red gushed through the fingers closed over the gaping wound on his neck, drenching the front of his vest in a deep crimson.  He collapsed sideways onto the railroad, dying convulsions wracking his otherwise prone form.  The wolf shuddered at the carnage and the rallying thrill of victory left her howling at the setting sun with blood on her hands and a corpse cooling at her feet.

  The clamors of the coyote’s pack growing louder brought Akira back to her senses, and the girl crouched to swipe the pistol from the dead man’s belt and his moleskin canteen half-full of water before swinging herself onto his horse in spite of its nervous stamping, the beast shooting off in a panic away from the baying of enraged coyotes.  Too far behind to accomplish anything more than tiring themselves out, her pursuers halted their chase in shock at the steaming corpse left in the wolf’s wake and Akira rode hard into the night towards the silver gleam of the rising moon.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

  She rode and rode and rode as if the devil himself set a fire beneath her heels until the world narrowed to the steady thump of hooves stamping rhythmically on the hard desert soil and the slow shift of silver over indigo into blinding gold peering over a red horizon, only halting at the quivering of the horse’s muscles signaling that she would let it rest or it would make her.  Spotting a small stream ahead and the distant speck of a town in the distance, Akira led the mount slowly to the water’s edge and dismounted with an apologetic pat to its shoulder.  The horse blew hard through its nose and bowed its head to drink as she filled her moleskin and attempted to wash away the long dried blood caking her arms and the filthy linen shirt hanging from her dangerously thin frame, for she could not waltz into town on a dead man’s horse and carry his gun in hands stained with his blood looking for all the world like she’d mauled him to death.  Oh but hadn’t she?  Shivers trailed down her spine and she chased away the aftershocks of such a brutal victory with a deep swill of cold water from her canteen.    

  Despite the surety and barbarous resolve with which the wolf had liberated the coyote’s life from his body, the future looming before her remained an uncertain and fickle thing, shifting before her eyes with every action like sand whipped up by a gale.  After all, it would not be long before the coyotes cried their crocodile tears and set the sheepdogs on the trail of a rogue sheep baring teeth too sharp and soul too wild to ever truly be such a thing, asking innocently for aid in stringing her up as if they had not forged a predator from the pyre of a scared little girl.  As if they had not created the beast beneath her breast with blood on its muzzle and fire in its eyes.  Her gaze strayed to her reflection in the clear spring water staring back up at her, fingers finding the handle of the revolver tucked into her waistband as something terrible and monstrous peered out through the eyes of a child, or of what used to be.  She looked away and forced her hand to release the gun.  Akira shook her head briefly to clear her mind and turned towards the small town she’d spied on her way in, for perhaps a new set of clothes or even a new horse could do her some good in yet again donning the deceptive wool of a sheep.  This new world she found herself in was not friendly to people like herself, even ignoring the fact that she was a killer: her skin not white enough, her name too foreign, too  _her_.  She would have to acquire the necessary provisions through less than legal methods and whatever guilt she may have felt once upon a time has long since died with whomever she had been before a simmering brand marred her skin and sent her spiraling into a life of blood, sweat, and snapping jaws vying for control.  The wolf would descend upon the town at night under the cover of the moon.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

  Akira woke to hunger gnawing painfully at her stomach and reminding her that she had not eaten in nearly two days, muscles cramping and spasming, for the adrenaline had long since been washed away and they made their displeasure known at her riding all night after a long day of manual labor.  Crawling over to the stream now sparkling with reflected starlight, she cupped her hands around the cool water and drank deeply.  The cold had crept in while she slept and she shivered involuntarily as she rose shakily to her feet and made to mount her stolen steed, spots dancing across her vision at the protests of her burning thighs and aching back.  Her horse nickered nervously as she swayed precariously upon the saddle, but went obediently enough towards the town in the distance after she’d secured the pistol in her waistband and the moleskin canteen slung over her shoulder, just in case her weariness made her sloppy and she came across an issue best solved by the display or use of a steel barrel glinting in the lamplight.  Despite the twinge in her muscles, she’d soon have to make the rest of the trip on foot.  She sighed heavily and patted the horse’s neck; this town had better be worth the risk.  

  Once the swaying wooden sign reading “Deadwood Creek” appeared in her line of sight, Akira forced her steed to slow to a trot before dismounting and running an apologetic hand down its neck, removing her canteen and roughly cracking the worn leather strap like a whip across its flank.  The beast reared in panic and tore off like a shot towards the diminutive town, hopefully serving as a distraction while she crept about on foot in search of provisions.  Pausing along the back wall of the saloon to be certain no sheepdogs had caught her scent, grateful for the soot and dust dulling the once conspicuous white of her frayed linen shirt, her keen senses detected nothing noteworthy, save perhaps the concerned shouts as the horse played its part beautifully, and she snuck silently in through the back doors of the building like a wolf slinking into the hen house.  She held the door loosely until it shut quietly and she made certain everyone’s focus was on the ruckus in the streets before the sight of fresh plates of food left unattended on the counter stole her attention.  Hunger rippled painfully through her abdomen and the overwhelming scents of a home-cooked meal made her mouth water, yet Akira wrested just enough control of herself to seize an apron off the floor to use as a rucksack before fervidly dumping the plates’ contents into the makeshift sack as quietly as she could manage in her desperation.  Satisfied with her bounty, the girl walked noiselessly backwards out the blessedly well-cared for (and thus quiet) doors into the crisp night air, tucking into an alley to avoid any prying eyes.  Akira held open the bag briefly to peruse her loot of several portions of salted pork, assorted beans, several slices of rye bread, celery, and even the tantalizingly plump form of a California grown orange, and retrieved a small handful of beans and meat she wasted no time in devouring, the mixing of her food and their flavors within the sack utterly failing to dampen the sheer relief of a decently warm meal sliding pleasantly into her empty stomach.

  Licking her fingers clean with a contented hum and wiping them off on her trousers, Akira tied the ends of the apron together to close it and crept silently in the direction of the livery.  She slowed at the sound of hushed voices clustered near one of the pens somewhat away from the rest she assumed served as a quarantine of sorts, yet the energetic and agitated sounds of a stamping and very vocally displeased horse led her to perhaps reconsider as she drew close enough to hear the tail end of their conservation.

  “...from an native fella in a trade for some rifle and ammo,” the taller of the pair said quietly, gesturing towards the horse still obscured from Akira’s vision by the two men, “Beautiful animal, but I’m afraid I’ll have to put ‘er down on the morrow.  Damn thing kicked the stablehand to death when he tried to slap a saddle on ‘er.”

  “Too much mustang blood.”  The other man nodded his agreement before they murmured quick goodbyes and parted ways, finally giving Akira the opportunity to slink forward and lay her eyes on the beast giving them so trouble.

  Upon seeing the mare still pawing the dirt and snorting in challenge, she had to fight the urge whistle appreciatively as they certainly had been truthful in calling the widow-maker before her beautiful, lean muscle knotted like rope rippling beneath a pale amber coat with darker dappled patterns and black legs built solely for speed and power.  Big brown eyes settled warily on Akira and, before she could stop to consider the repercussions, she hopped the fence to enter the pen.  She was not ignorant to the danger, in fact the danger itself is the only explanation she felt suitable for the tether tugging her by the ribs into harm’s way, for the wolf gazed upon this half-wild raging thing to see a fellow beast,  _a fellow killer_ , instead of prey and knew then deep within her heart that this horse was to be hers.  As if coming to a similar conclusion, the mustang now regarded her with something more akin to curiosity over open distrust and Akira took that as her cue to open the bag slung over her shoulder.  Food certainly never did any harm in terms of building rapport and she fished out a piece of celery, cleaning off the pork and bean juice splashed on the stalk before offering it to the steed still tracking her every movement in a hopefully encouraging manner.

  Minutes passed of the two simply watching each other, Akira standing stock still and the mare creeping tentatively forward, until finally she gained enough courage to pluck the celery from her open palm, nosing at Akira’s hands and face in search of more as the girl snorted quietly in amusement.  She shoved gently at the wet nose pushing against her shoulder to give herself enough room to fish out another stalk of celery eagerly devoured in record time.  Running a hand along her neck when she made no move to pull away, Akira couldn’t stop the burst of wistfulness souring her mood as the horse’s temperament inexplicably reminded her of her father’s spicy bibim-naengmyeon and how he’d let her grind the ginger for the sauce.

  “Ginger,” she whispered, voice raspy and unrecognizable with disuse, “Ginger will be your name.”  

  Ginger just nuzzled Akira affectionately and she chose to interpret the comforting motion as approval.  Despite the mutual trust surely blossoming between the prey and prey too fierce to be labeled as such, her instincts warned against attempting to saddle the mustang just yet and the bridle and reins the late stablehand hastily placed would have to suffice for the moment.  Still, it would be remiss of her to ride off into the night without acquiring better supplies than an apron stuffed with food and she reluctantly turned around to jump the fence again in spite of the renewed protests from her aching muscles, quietly entering the stables in search of decent rope or a larger feed sack.  The sound of hurried footsteps rapidly approaching gave her pause.  Coming back to her senses, Akira swiftly scaled the large stack of bound hay tucked into the corner of the barn to shimmy beneath the dark tarp draped over it and lay flat on her stomach, stolen pistol in hand and pointed at the door before she’d even realized she’d reached for it.  Lady Luck seemed to favor her in that fleeting moment, for the doors burst open mere moments after she’d finished hiding and a man entered, the wolf tensing in preparation to spring.

  Yet her resolve immediately faltered the instant he removed his hat to run fingers through dark cropped hair and she could clearly see his rigid posture and dark expression; this stranger was like  _her_.  Even in the dim light of the moon streaming in through filthy windows, Akira knew deep in her bones that he too was a wolf (one from her side of the Pacific as well if her eyes did not deceive her), a fellow predator born from a history of violence painted upon their skin who emerged snarling and gnashing wicked fangs from being baptized in blood and fire and coming out the other side all the stronger because of it, trouble at their heels ‘til they turned to bite back.  Sheepdogs bayed in the distance to signal their search of something sinister among the sheep, and she resolved to help this kindred spirit wearing a hunted look about his eyes and revolvers at his hips.  Exhilaration humming pleasantly beneath her ribs at the thrill of an approaching battle, the wolf bared her fangs and wondered if perhaps she and this man were guilty of similar crimes if she was correct in her stipulations surrounding his origins were correct.  Her musings would have to wait.  The doors swung open noisily yet again and three men with guns held aloft in clear threat entered before her fellow wolf could do more than rest his hands on the hilts of his own weapons.  

  The leader of the trio, obvious even without the shiny sheriff badge pinned to his vest, aimed his gun directly at the man’s forehead with a faint sound of admonishment.  “Hands away from your weapons, son,” he ordered, maintaining his steady grip even as his quarry complied, “you wouldn’t happen to be a fellow by the name of Johnny Gat with a bonafide warrant of $500 on his head now wouldja?”

  Gat, apparently was the name of her lupine kinsmen, scoffed derisively and raised his hands over his head, the surrender more like a mockery than a true deference to authority.  “Who’s askin’?”

  A mean smile spread across the lead sheepdog’s countenance and his lips formed around the beginnings of a sentence: “Be nice mister, your warrant says dead or alive and I ain’t too picky so-” But Akira felt less than generous at the condescension dripping like poison from his words and she put a bullet right through the center of his sternum, cutting him off with a strangled wheeze.

  His instinctive shot went wide and Johnny shot the remaining deputies before they could gather their wits about them, the sheriff slumping to the ground: not quite dead but rapidly becoming so.  As the sheepdog too intent on the wolf before him to notice the other lurking in the tall grass drew his last rattling breath and stilled, Gat turned to stare wide-eyed at Akira climbing down the haystack to stand in front of him, pistol held loosely at her side.

   “You just shot the sheriff.”  He stated flatly and his blank expression failed to hide his incredulity.

  “But i didn’t shoot the deputy,” she responded with a quiet snort, nudging the boot of one of the corpses he was responsible for.

  She glanced upwards to meet his gaze right as realization dawned in his eyes and he recognized the predator before him for what she was, surprise melting off his face with narrow eyed suspicion replacing it.  “Why’d you shoot ‘em?  You sure as shit didn’t do out of the goodness of your heart.”  He eyed her warily as she stepped around him to remove the sheriff’s gunbelt and sling it around her own hips, plucking the pistol from the dead man’s hand and placing it in its rightful holster.

  Tucking her original stolen weapon into her waistband once more and grabbing a rope and serviceable saddle bag off the wall, Akira pointed at the violet symbol embroidered on the bottom of his undershirt that she couldn’t quite discern in the low light of the barn.  “That marking, what does it mean?”  She questioned, vaguely remembering the overseers’ occasional talk of bandit groups cropping up across the West.

  He glanced down to see what she was referring to and a wolfish grin spread across his face.  “If you think you can handle it, some sons of bitches with guns are hoping to settle a turf war.”

  She thought of a coyote bleeding out into the desert sand with vultures circling overhead (white bone and the scent of fear hanging in the air) and  _smiled_.

  “Where can I sign up?”

                                                           

 

 

 

 

 

(bonus cameo: Later, he introduced her to his ursine companion sticking close by his side and swearing at him without any true malice.  And if she noticed the way the two men gravitated towards each other without conscious thought, well, she thought of a fox with green green eyes and fiery red curls, and kept her mouth shut.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading~♥  
> this is what ginger looks like if anyone's curious: https://www.google.com/search?q=amber+champagne&rlz=1C1EODB_enUS524US527&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiysKmC6tjYAhUj7oMKHVTQAO8Q_AUICigB&biw=1536&bih=760#imgrc=N-My_xJw16vBxM:  
> (i appreciate any constructive criticism since this was my first fic ever for saints row and that i decided to post so please let me know if gat seems too ooc)


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